


hold the moon

by thispieceofmind



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-07 22:44:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1916760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thispieceofmind/pseuds/thispieceofmind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Harry is a cliché. Louis is, well, Louis. They share an English course at university</p><p>
  <i>"He thinks of Emerson and cummings and Harry’s dumb poem before he writes down Rondeau’s origination in song, and how poetry has kind of become synonymous with cool. Fucking Harry Styles. It’s his face, probably. "</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	hold the moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [voyageur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voyageur/gifts).



> Hi little love, Soph!! This is for you; I hope it met your expectations! Happy Summer to everyone else reading; I hope you like it!

**Prompt: Harry is a cliche. Louis is, well, Louis. They share an English course at university**

 

**hold the moon**

Louis hates Mondays and Wednesdays. Specifically, Mondays and Wednesdays from 3:00 to 4:30. Well, there’s the fact that Monday means an entire week ahead of you, and, despite what the prospect of Wednesday may be (hump day and all), there are still another fucking three days waiting to suck the life out of you. (Maybe Wednesdays would be more fun if he had someone to actually hump.) Besides, the specific timeframe of hatred all stems from his History of Poetry class that is an hour and a half of a colossal waste of time. He needed another English class and another few credits, and because he signed up so late, this was all that was left. 

Essentially, it sucks. Poetry has nothing to do with Sports Journalism anyway. He just really wants to write about fit men kicking a ball around and how his favorite team is going to slay every season. Is there so much harm in such a lifestyle? Edgar Allen Poe and Henry David Thoreau have nothing to do with that. Therefore, all things considered, Mondays and Wednesdays suck more than usual. 

It’s only a few weeks into the new term, and it’s balls cold. His walk to the building is not fun. He has a huge coat on, no socks despite himself, and a hat pulled so far down his face that he’s on the brink of not being able to see. It’s compensation for his dick being frozen. His tea at least warms his hands, but he tries not to feel as dreary grey as the sky above him. The sun is setting already. It’s not even three. Why. 

It’s at least heated inside the building, a pleasant buzz of warmth hitting him as soon as he opens the glass door to the hall. It has that kind of wintery, fake-heating smell, but it’s comforting to know that something’s working. 

He’s got about a minute to spare when he sits down in his seat, pulling his laptop out of his backpack and squinting – despite his contacts – at the SmartBoard at the front of the room. His teacher is writing _Haiku Myths_ beneath a photo of a cherry blossom and the Japanese flag. 

He begins the class by saying, “Good afternoon, everyone! Right. What do you guys know about haikus?” 

Louis wants to die already. He raises his hand anyway. “Five-seven-five, right?” 

Professor Kingston nods slowly, like he’s unsure. “Good! Yes, all right. I’m going to make a chart. Facts and Myths.” He taps the SmartBoard with a finger and then picks up the blue marker, dividing the board in half and making a neat T-Chart. “We’ll get to this in a moment, but five-seven-five is, in fact, a myth.”

Louis just raises his eyebrows and makes a chart on his laptop, grimacing a little because that tends to be his face in this class. What does he get for trying? He’s fucking wrong. 

He looks up when he hears, “Harry?” coming from Kings’ mouth. “Tell me what you know.”

“Well,” he starts, and yes, wonderful. This is going to be great. Whatever comes out of Styles’s mouth is always _great._ “So, I was on Tumblr once, right?” Louis thought he wanted to die before. Now he has his metaphorical gun in his mouth. Harry probably has fucking fairy lights in his room. “And there was the most beautiful quote by this guy named Matsuo Bashō, and I wanted to read up on him.” 

First of all, what kind of name is that. Second of all, who the fuck reads up on poets. Louis lifts his fingers from his keyboard before he breaks his space bar (again). Instead, he scratches at the back of his neck and tries not to scoop his eyeballs from their sockets. 

“I know Wikipedia isn’t one hundred percent accurate, but apparently he’s one of the few Japanese haiku masters who lived in the 1600s. And he was kind of a nomad who wandered around because he was a little sad? His stuff is so wonderful. I actually learned a lot about haiku because of him.” 

“Excellent! We’re actually going to talk about him a fair amount in this class. Do you remember the quote you found by him?” 

Harry grins. Louis hates the look on his face. Louis hates the look on Kingston’s face even more. 

“Clouds now and again 

give a soul some respite from 

moon-gazing—behold.”

“Beautiful,” Kingston sighs. “This is actually a wonderful transition for the lesson. I’m going to write this on the board, and I want you guys to count the syllables for me, going off of the rule that Louis gave us.” 

Louis takes a sip of his tea before counting syllables a few times on his fingers, and then staring down at his smaller-than-average hands because that is a fucking five-seven-five haiku if he’s ever heard one. He crosses his arms and waits, because what the heck. 

“All right,” Kingston starts. “I want you to pay careful attention to the dash in the middle of the poem, too.” About thirty students look her blankly in the face. “Johnson,” he starts, and he looks terrified, which Louis finds hilarious, “how many syllables per line did you get?”

“Uh, five-seven-five, Professor.” 

“Good,” he says. Louis senses the spontaneity of this lesson and it’s making him kind of uncomfortable. “Now, I’m going to write another one of Bashō’s poems on the board and I want you to count the syllables again.” 

He writes: 

_Refinement's origin:_

_the remote north country's_

_rice-planting song._

Louis frowns as he counts. Six-six-four. That does not seem very haiku-y to Louis. 

“Professor Kingston, this one is six-six-four.” 

“Precisely! Now, I’m going to tell you quite a bit about haikus now, and the first rumor I’m going to dispel: five-seven-five. All lies.” 

He then goes on for about an hour about translation and transliteration and _kirejis_ (cutting words, aka the dash from before) and Matsuo Bashō and Japan five hundred years ago and how they don’t have syllables and a bunch of stuff Louis doesn’t feel like listening to. He takes notes anyway. Also, he tries to ignore the stupid smile on Styles’s face and the way he asks so many questions. 

It’s a pretty rough Wednesday. Better yet, it ends with the most colossal assignment Louis has ever had the displeasure to take on. 

// \\\

Wednesday concludes with him looking up Ralph Waldo Emerson. It really started with two things: the fifteen-page research paper Kingston assigned at the end of class and a quote his mum posted on Facebook that he actually kind of took a liking to. It said, “To be great is to be misunderstood.” To be quite frank, he skimmed over it at first, because his mum always posts dumb shit on Facebook for her lady friends to read, but the name at the end of the sentence caught his eye. Ralph Waldo Emerson. He knows that name. He is a poet. And Louis needs to write about a poet. It’s not like he didn’t know about the paper; it was on the syllabus, but like a good student, he had been diligently choosing to ignore its existence. So he continues his research as a nice way to end his night, eating yet another bag of microwave popcorn whilst listening to music too loudly – something that will probably make him go prematurely deaf (because apparently earbuds are bad for you) – in order to drown out Zayn having Skype sex with Niall the next room over even though, coincidentally, Niall only lives three buildings down. 

In this day and age, people just can’t be bothered. 

This happens, like, three times a week. 

Louis would say they can go fuck themselves, but to be quite honest, they probably already are. So he puts on the loudest music he owns and aggressively reads about a poet who intrigues him a little more than he will ever let on. Apparently, this Ralph guy did a lot of stuff. Wikipedia says he was an essayist, a lecturer, a poet, _and_ the leader of the Transcendentalism movement. Louis’s pretty impressed. That’s way more stuff than he’s ever done. Emerson rooted for individualism and freedom, and to be straightforward with himself, that’s really rather beautiful. The man had guts, that’s for sure. Transcendentalism is inherent goodness of both people and nature. And wouldn’t Louis like to believe in something as simply wonderful as that. 

Sometimes cynicism gets tiring. 

He reads essays and poems all night; this winds up his favorite: 

**Character**

_The sun set, but set not his hope:_

_Stars rose; his faith was earlier up:_

_Fixed on the enormous galaxy,_

_Deeper and older seemed his eye;_

_And matched his sufferance sublime_

_The taciturnity of time._

_He spoke, and words more soft than rain_

_Brought the Age of Gold again:_

_His action won such reverence sweet_

_As hid all measure of the feat._

// \\\

“Your papers are due on Friday by midnight, all right?” Kingston has his head bowed as he looks at the screen of his computer, squinting. “So far, it seems as the only person who’s handed one in is… ah. Mr. Styles.” 

Louis narrows his eyes, crossing his arms across his chest. He wants to bark something out, but thankfully, the professor corrects himself before Louis gnaws off his own tongue. He thinks of Emerson for a minute. The goodness in people. “Oh, and Tomlinson as well. e.e. cummings and Ralph Waldo Emerson. Good choices, boys. Next week will be starting Limericks, so get ready. I’ll see you Monday.” 

Louis is pretty quick to get out of his seat. His leg won’t stop jumping, his tea is long gone, and he has a song stuck in his head that he needs to listen to _now._ But he sees Styles getting up from his chair and leaving all of his stuff splayed on the table, so a spark of curiosity catches his hands as they do nonsense with his bag. He takes his time when he puts his laptop in its case, listening as Harry approaches Kingston. 

“This was wonderful, Harry. I really appreciate you showing it to me. I didn’t know if you wanted any corrections, but I put a few things down in blue ink in case you wanted a second opinion.”

Harry looks down at his shoes with a blush, hair flopping down a bit. Louis knows he looks strange standing there. They haven’t really noticed that he’s still here, but he’s got nothing left to busy himself. “I really appreciate that, sir. It means more than you know.” 

“Have you ever thought of sharing it with someone else? For instance, the class, or a blog maybe? Honestly, I think if you keep working at it, you could get published. It was just as entrancing as a good novel.” 

Harry blushes again, fiddling with his hands. He’s never seemed this bashful, but Louis reckons maybe it’s a poet thing. He tightens his hands around the straps of his bags as he slings it onto his shoulders, trekking toward the door but pausing because he will eavesdrop if he damn well wants to. “I don’t know, Professor Kingston –” 

“Call me Michael, please.” 

“Oh, I. Okay.” Harry’s a mess. For some reason, Louis finds it wonderful. Maybe it’s the pink in his cheeks or perhaps Louis is a raging sadist. “Well, I’ve posted things here and there on my Tumblr, but that doesn’t really count? I’ve not showed many people I genuinely know. Plus, there’s free verse poetry like, all over the Internet.”

Kingston nods his head. “And what about the class, would you share with them?” 

“I was actually thinking about it. I was gonna like, for my presentation I wrote a poem based on cummings’ style, yeah? I thought about reading it. I don’t know.”

Kingston puts a comforting hand on Harry’s shoulder. “I think that’s a wonderful idea, Harry. They would love it, I’m sure.” 

Kingston is a grimy bastard, Louis concludes. He watches carefully, hand idling on the push bar of the door. He narrows his eyes. “I’m not sure…” 

“Do it, Harry. It will be the highlight of the class.”

Harry is a permanent blush at this point; Louis is a weird mixture of jealousy and disgust, but the disgust bit is rather habitual. “Yeah, all right. You flatter me though, Mr. Ki– Michael.”

Louis wants to vomit as he watches Kingston wink, but he just steps out the door as soon as he hears, “I really don’t,” because he can’t take more of this suck up shit nor poetry talk, so he slips away before either of them can catch who was eavesdropping. Fucking poets. 

// \\\

Louis goes about his presentation with complete grace, class, and style. His powerpoint is the prettiest one google docs has available, and as far as he can tell, everyone likes Ralph Waldo Emerson. Or, they’re not asleep while he tells them about the Transcendentalism movement or his early life. He breezes it through it with a confidence that probably comes from him genuinely _enjoying_ his presentation, but he most likely will never admit to that, so he just sits down to applause and waits for Styles to go, because this whole poem thing has had him eagerly awaiting the whole weekend. 

Harry’s always scrawling away, is the thing. Louis sometimes wants to ask what the hell he’s writing when they’re not taking notes, but he can’t really bring himself to. It’s not really his business, right? Curiosity killed the cat and all that shit. But poetry is being shoved down his throat today, and for once he’s kind of excited to hear it. (Okay, he might be excited most of the time, but this is special, yeah? The kind of special he’d admit to himself.)

So when Harry goes up to the front of the room with his flash drive, Louis leans forward in his seat and gets his pen ready, scrawling _e.e. cummings_ messily at the top of his page. Harry’s confident as always, talking to the class – dare Louis say it – even more smoothly than he had. What really keeps Louis on his toes is when he announces:

“So I’ve got one of my favorite poems by him here. I thought it would be quite nice to share it with you. You might gain from it as much as I did.” 

Harry reads: 

**I Have Found What You Are Like**

 

i have found what you are like

the rain,

 

(Who feathers frightened fields

with the superior dust-of-sleep. wields

 

easily the pale club of the wind

and swirled justly souls of flower strike

 

the air in utterable coolness

 

deeds of green thrilling light

with thinned

 

newfragile yellows

 

lurch and.press

 

—in the woods

which

stutter

and

 

sing

And the coolness of your smile is

stirringofbirds between my arms;but

i should rather than anything

have(almost when hugeness will shut

quietly)almost,

your kiss

It’s beautiful, is the thing. The words on their own, but the way Harry reads it, too. He’s powerful. He makes it more than what it is on paper. In all truth, Louis loves it. And if someone asked him how he felt in that moment, he’d probably say so, too. Who knew he’d end up with such a change of heart. Even if it’s quiet one. 

He gets lost in his own headspace for a minute, and by the time Louis’s back in the real world, he catches the tail end of what Harry’s saying, “… so by Professor Kingston’s request–” the fucker “– I’m going to share it with you. It’s called, _You Don’t Like It,_ and I wrote it based a bit upon cummings’ style. Uh, so yeah. Right then. I hope you enjoy. It’ll uh, put up on the board here.” 

He half-heartedly points behind him as he changes the slide to show his poem, the format tabbed and choppy. Louis watches his hands sweat, watches him shake the hair out of his eyes, watches him bite his lip. He’s nervous in his anticipation, but as soon as he starts to speak, it fades away. 

“you don’t like it when i tell you  
that there are tiny solar systems   
exploding on your chest  
      where your  
              heart beats

i think it’s because you feel the people  
living and loving on your version of earth  
saying(in largest of small things that)  
you hold the moon  
     you  
     do

i swear to you   
even if you don’t like it  
when i say alloftheplanets   
      need you  
the oceans  
      need you  
i   
      need you  
             hold  
             the   
             moon”

Louis has the wind knocked out of his chest. Like, he might have thought Kingston was talking Harry up a little the other day, but honestly, he’s slightly in awe. He didn’t really know what was going on in Harry’s head, but if that’s not beautiful then he doesn’t know a poem that is.

// \\\

“Nice poem last class, Styles.” It’s times like these when Louis knows he’s truly an asshole. Because he’s condescending as shit even though he really means what he’s saying. 

Harry looks down at his notebook. The kid’s always taking notes on paper. Louis doesn’t get him. Especially when he has a beautiful MacBook sitting at his feet in his bag. “Oh, uh, thanks, yeah. The class seemed to enjoy it enough.” 

_They did, they did, I did._ “Kingston sure did,” Louis mutters under his breath. 

“What?” Harry says innocently. Louis doesn’t know how he keeps that image up, either. Naive, but simultaneously all-knowing and alarmingly charming. Kingston really was all over him after he performed his piece, though. Didn’t help that Harry was last to go. It’s starting to get quite weird, really. 

“Nothing,” Louis says quickly. “But you’re right, yeah. Everyone seemed rather impressed with your poetry skills.” Louis pauses and it seems quite dramatic, but it’s honestly just a moment of quiet contemplation. “You got a muse?” 

Louis is smooth. 

Harry twiddles his thumbs, and Louis would be lying if he said he wasn’t paying attention. “No, not really,” Harry says. He looks so deeply immersed in thought and Louis wonders if this is how he feels all the time, if this how he thinks. “Most of the characters I write about are fictional, anyway. Even in poetry. I just liked the idea of it. Not to mention, like, e.e. cummings is always writing about lovers. Besides, I don’t have a boyfriend right now.” Harry raises his eyebrows and plays with one of his rings. “Right, yeah. I’m gay, so. Hope that doesn’t bother you.”

Louis just laughs, brings his fist to the table. “That’d make me a bit of a hypocrite, wouldn’t it?”

Harry’s eyes light up with a chuckle. “Yeah, uh. I suppose it would.”

Louis just nods, looks away for a second because he wasn’t kidding about being smooth. He just breezed right out to Harry.

“Well, I think you’re pretty talented, kid. Even if poetry is dumb.”

Harry blushes, ignores his dumb comment. Louis want’s to keep making that happen, kind of. He always wonders, just for a second, why Harry hasn’t questioned him being in this class if he hates poetry so much. Whatever. “Oh, thank you. I was quite nervous to share it with the class, ‘cause like, it’s a little personal, y’know? It might not be about me… but, like, they’re still my thoughts and ideas and words, and sometimes it can be really difficult to take criticism on something that matters to you.”

Louis takes a deep breath. “Yeah, I mean, absolutely. I’ve never exactly laid myself bare like that, but facing any kind of judgment – whether it’s good or bad – can be kind of rough, so. I commend you, Harry.”

“I, uh. Thanks. It honestly means a lot.” 

“Yeah.”

Yeah.

There are a few moments of edgy silence, where Louis is digging at his nail beds like a prick and Harry is just staring down at his doodled notebook, but Harry speaks before it gets to their heads. “Can I ask you a question?” 

The _you_ _just did_ is pushing at the seam of his lips, but he holds back. He can turn his asshole off if he wants to. “Sure, I suppose.”

“Did you, like. Enjoy doing your project?” 

Okay, so perhaps that wasn’t what Louis was expected, but the sentiment is the same. He takes a minute. “Yeah. I mean, I guess. Like, Emerson was cool to read up on and I think he’s interesting, but like. It was poetry right?” Louis has to force himself to scoff. He doesn’t even know why he ended his sentence like that. He knows that Harry isn’t going to agree with him. 

He just nods, all slow and stuff, like he doesn’t to offend Louis by disagreeing. “Well, I really hope you learned something that’s going to stick with you.”

“I did,” Louis replies. He takes a minute to look at Harry a little better, not being creepy with his eye contact because they’re actually conversing for once. He’s wearing another one of his scarves, pulling his hair back with a soft blue and black silk. His eyes are open – like if Louis asked him any question he’d answer with complete honesty. His jaw is cut and his lips are sitting a flat line, waiting for Louis to keep talking. He kind of wants to touch his cheeks to see if they’re soft. It’s cool. He forces words out of his mouth. “There were definitely benefits from doing it. I’m not complaining, mate. It was the annoying kind of fun, yeah? Where you can be begrudging about it but still like, gain from it when it’s over with.”

“Cool then,” Harry says. 

Kingston starts talking after that, so Louis shuts up and tries to pay attention to his stupid face. 

// \\\

“What do you think of all this?” Harry asks him. Louis keeps his mouth on the rim of his cup and blinks a little owlishly behind the frame of his glasses. Harry’s holding his hands out all wide, and Louis is not really sure what he’s referencing to. If he’s gesturing to himself – in all his headband-ed, plain white tee-d, beautiful glory – then, well. Louis thinks he’s wonderfully hot. If he’s referring to the poem junkies he’s sharing the classroom with or the _Rondeau_ written on the SmartBoard, Louis is still a bit unsure how he feels.

So he asks back, “Think of what?”

“This class. The poems. I don’t know, I’m just curious. I pay attention to you, and you don’t seem to enjoy it very much.”

Harry pays attention to him? Louis would’ve never guessed seeing as he spends all his bloody time talking to Kingston about Japanese haiku bitch masters or whatever. He doesn't want to admit he’s flattered in the slightest, so he just shrugs. “Styles, perhaps you should pay a bit more attention to the class.” 

Harry’s mouth opes in an indignant gape. Louis takes another sip of tea. “Perhaps,” Harry starts slowly, “you should take your own advice.”

Cheeky fucker. 

Louis shrugs again. “Yeah, maybe.” There’s a pause. Harry’s looking at him, eyes pretty, hands now clasped atop the table. “It’s all right.” It’s an admittance, but even just a _hint_ toward finding any pleasure in this makes Harry smile dumb and huge. Dude really likes poetry. 

“All right?” Harry mumbles, and his voice rises up like he’s really excited and Louis can’t tell if it’s embarrassing or adorable. “That’s a start!” He looks like he’s about to start jumping up and down and clapping or some shit. (So maybe it’s a little adorable but, whatever, right?) “Poetry is really cool, Louis. You’ll see.”

Louis just nods and tries not to smile, not getting a chance to respond before Kingston is saying, “Rondeau stems from the French word meaning ‘round’…” And Louis just tries to listen for Harry’s sake. And maybe his GPA. And he might actually think it’s cool, but he’s the only one who has to know. (Zayn, too. Because he looks through Louis’ internet history for his secrets and his good porn.) 

He thinks of Emerson and cummings and Harry’s dumb poem before he writes down Rondeau’s origination in song, and how _poetry_ has kind of become synonymous with _cool._ Fucking Harry Styles. It’s his face, probably. 

// \\\

For once, Zayn has ventured out of the flat to sex Niall in person. It’s a big deal. (Not actually, but Louis truly enjoys having Zayn’s laziness as blackmail. They fuck in person all the time.) The real big deal is Niall’s party. They’re also not so infrequent, but there’s been a midwinter lull recently, y’know, with the cold and the grey and the sad. Sometimes it takes a lot of motivation to throw a party. 

In this case, Niall is their shining party angel. 

So at like, 9:30 on Saturday night, Louis walks the minimal distance to Niall’s flat in what feels like the depths of the arctic. His coat honestly does nothing, but the stairs inside the building warm him up, and to be quite frank, it’s hot as hell inside Niall’s living room because there are a million people in a tight space, and a majority are well on their way to drunk. 

Louis already feels at home. 

He finds Zayn and Niall in the kitchen, making out next to the vodka. Louis’s quite torn on whether he should’ve expected more or less. He grabs a beer from the fridge (but just to piss Niall off because he’s always talking about how the fridge ones are not for the party, yet clearly he is otherwise occupied). He roams around a bit after that, making small talk and bro hugging all of the frat bros. After about fifteen minutes, he’s kind of bored and not really drunk enough. 

He gets another beer, and then he finds Harry.

Louis is not sure if this is good luck or terrible, terrible fate. He kind of wants to make out with him. 

“Louis!” Harry exclaims. 

“Harry!” Louis exclaims. He may not be drunk, but he can certainly use the prospect of it as an excuse to be louder and more obnoxious than usual. 

“What are you doing here?” Harry says. 

“It’s a party!” Louis says as an explanation. Does he honestly need a better one? What kind of question is ‘what are you doing here’? 

“Right, but like. Do you know Niall?” Harry’s leaning against a wall, and Louis kind of feels pathetic that he has to look up. Just so, but still, right? 

Louis laughs, sips his beer. “I’m sure half of the people here don’t know Niall.” Harry just looks at him. “Yeah, he’s a good friend of mine.”

“Me too, actually!” He’s fucking peppy. But what looks like rum and coke is sloshing around in his cup, and he’s certainly been here for longer than Louis, so he supposes Harry has an excuse, too. “I lived with him for about a month, but then Niall picked up another shift where he was bar tending so he had some more money, he and his boyfriend started having a lot of sex (which I don’t blame them for, but I have trouble studying with noise), so he could pay full rent I moved across campus with Liam after _his_ flatmate moved out. It all worked out pretty well. Plus I’m always invited to Niall’s parties.” 

“Funny that, the boyfriend that he has a lot of sex with is _my_ roommate. Zayn.” Louis looks away for a moment to point across the room where Zayn and Niall are snogging in the doorway to the kitchen. Charming. 

“Small world,” Harry says, in a way that should be passive but really isn’t because it’s _Harry._ He’s always got some kind of expressiveness to him. Apparently that specific trait is amplified tenfold when he’s mildly intoxicated. “Anyway, Louis. How are you!” 

“I’m all right, yeah,” Louis murmurs. “Not quite drunk enough.”

Harry looks down at his cup, a little puzzled, and then holds it out his cup. “Does rum do it for you?”

Louis laughs and gently pushes Harry’s cup back towards him. “I’ve got a beer here, love. S’all right. Thank you, though.” Louis takes another sip of said beer. He’s ought to buckle in because he’s going to do something stupid in no time. It’s been too long anyhow. “Anyway, Mummy taught me not to take drinks from strangers. Might be drugged.”

“Then I’d be drugging myself, too, wouldn’t I?” Harry mumbles on the edge of his cup, taking another sip and looking quite adorably confused with a furrowed brow. “Also, m’not a stranger, am I? We’re friends, yeah?” 

“Yeah, of course,” Louis is quick to say. He’s clearly off his flirting game. How does one flirt? “As friends, I think we should sit down.” There are not so many available seats in a small flat. 

“I agree, actually,” Harry says. It kind of catches Louis by surprise. But not in comparison to when Harry grabs his wrist. “C’mon. We can sit in my old room. He turned it into a bit of a guest room, but it’s a pull out couch mostly.” Louis knows. He’s been in the room. But Harry’s cute, leading him around with his grip so soft but firm on Louis’ wrist. 

Most surprisingly, the bed is still a couch and no one’s in there fucking. Will they be in there fucking eventually? Louis is going to assume no, seeing as he doesn’t really think Harry as the type, is past that part of his life, and ( _fuck_ him, honestly) has quite the bloody crush on this kid. He might actually have to court him properly. Bullshit. Louis hasn’t had a boyfriend since he was 18. 

“Better in here,” Harry says, once they’re sitting. “Quieter, comfortable, just the two of us.” 

Louis cocks his head, smirks. “You trying to get me alone, Styles?”

He’s not expecting it when Harry bites his lip, sips his drink, and says, “Maybe.” He’s a coy bastard, and Louis is fascinated with him. A _crush._ On a _poet,_ for Christ’s sake. What’s even happened to him? 

There’s a moment of silence before Harry tips his head back on the cushion behind him. “Tell me a story, Louis.” What a terrible way to start a conversation. Like he said before, fascinated. Louis wants to know where he gets all of these ideas from. 

Louis clears his throat, sips his beer, and looks at Harry’s smooth chest. (His shirt is unbuttoned about halfway. He’s got nice skin and pretty tattoos.) What does he even _mean._ (And since when is Louis concerned about finding out?) “Once upon a time…” he begins dramatically. 

But Harry interrupts. “No.” Louis waits. “I want a proper story. Like, one about you. No fairytales.”

“Are you saying I’m not fit enough to be a prince, Harry?” 

Harry grins at him. “I wouldn’t say unfit. That’s a word with a lot of meaning, yeah? Although, I’m sure you’d make a wonderful prince under all circumstances.” 

“Thanks, doll.” 

“Anyway. This is my way of getting to know you. So tell me a Louis-story.”

A _Louis-story._ Interesting. But boy, does he have some of those. 

When he was in kindergarten, his most famous tale to tell the other four-year-olds was of the time he scared the knickers off his mother by jumping off a swingset. (Even then, Louis liked to believe that everyone idolized him. The other kids seemed to like that story well enough, anyway.) He had climbed up the ladder to the top of the slide, and then proceeded to go on the roof by climbing atop the monkey bars, and finally jumping off. His mum saw him at the last moment, running across the grass to catch him in arms that surely weren’t built to catch a growing boy from several meters off the ground. 

He was punished for _weeks._

The story, in the very end, was well worth it. He was king of Miss Katie’s class. 

As for primary school, he would tell the story of truth or dare gone wrong, when he was boldly dared to streak drown his street, only to be caught by his elderly next door neighbor who caught him, thrusted a blanket at his crotch, and threatened to call the police for public indecency. He cried to him, with proper (faked) tears to make him seem innocent and peer-pressured. In the end, he was let go, so he dropped the blanket neatly on top of his row of garden gnomes, and ran back to his house, hair messy and cheeks flushed from the running and adrenaline. 

Secondary school, he was the asshole who talked about his best hook up. Looking back, it was quite awful. But he went to a gay bar in London and shagged some guy who was staying at a fancy hotel, so it made for a pretty good story to tell. The man even got him room service and champagne. It was proper classy. 

Now, he needs a new, fresh, uni story, suitable for Harry and sometime that should indefinitely impress him. That is, if he wants the prophecy of courting him to come true. They’re going to have to shag on this couch _some_ day, but not as a hook up. For other reasons, like pissing Niall off. 

“A _Louis_ -story,” Louis repeats, out loud this time. “I’ve got quite the inventory, so you know. Have you got a genre in mind?”

“Nope,” Harry says. “Anything.” 

“Well, there was this one time, yeah? In my least favorite class where this _guy,_ who was all good in the class in stuff – the professor adored him – got up and did his project. Mind you, it was ways after I’d gone up and done mine, which I happened to feel pretty good about, but to put it lightly, he hit it out of the park.” Harry’s looking concerned, watching intently, like he wants to figure where this is going. “Got up there and was fucking spectacular, yeah? Read a poem and all. Made me feel all warm inside. It was quite lovely. He really seemed to relate with e.e. cummings.”

Louis stops and smirks. Lets it sink in. Admits this is the least suave and most corny he’s ever been. 

“You’re a fuck, you know that, right?” Harry says, still a little slurred around his pretty grin. The hand that’s not around his red cup falls onto Louis’ knee. “You liked it that much?” 

“Liked what?” Louis asks. 

“What do you mean? My poem? Or, my presentation?” He’s pouting. 

“I dunno what you’re talking about. I just told a story…”

Harry frowns harder, playfully shoves Louis at the bicep. “Don’t mess with me, Lou. I’m fragile when I’m tipsy.”

“All right,” Louis relents, “all right. You were lovely.”

“You flatter me,” Harry mutters. “But thank you. It means a lot. Although I do still expect a real story. That was weak.”

“Excuse me!” Louis squawks indignantly. “That’s one of the best Louis-stories in the damn book! It means a lot to me.”

“Bugger off,” Harry mumbles. “And tell me something good.”

Louis grins at him. Their knees brush a little more. Their pinkies might, too. “Yeah, all right.”

So he tells Harry all about the time he and Zayn went to a club and came back sloshed, then proceeded to spend thirty minutes knocking on a door on the wrong floor to get in their flat. It was a damn wild ride. Or Harry seemed to think so, at least. Louis just knows the night ended with him puking in a sink. An ending like that will _definitely_ pull a boy like Harry. 

// \\\

“What’d you mean you won’t meet me for dinner?” Louis says too loudly into his phone.

“I mean that Niall is ordering pizza and I’m sick of limp salad and fro-yo.” 

Zayn’s a bitch. That’s certainly Louis’ conclusion. “Okay, who the fuck gets sick of fro-yo? Also, can’t you just come sit with me for a little?”

“Get more friends, Louis,” Zayn mutters. Snarky fuck. “And no. I’m already here. I don’t even have a meal plan anymore. I discontinued mine after last semester ended because I’d never go. We have a flat and a fridge and a Tesco for a reason.”

“God, you really are no fun, Malik,” Louis grumbles. 

“No fun?” Zayn exclaims, exasperated. “This has nothing to do with fun. Now fuck off. I’m gonna go eat pizza and have sex.”

“Hopefully not at once!” Louis shouts into his mobile, but by that time, Zayn has certainly already hung up. 

So Louis slings his bag a little further up his shoulder, tucks his phone into his back pocket, and fetches a tray. He creates himself a very colorful meal of limp salad and fro-yo (just to spite Zayn and tell him about how _wonderful_ it was later. That is, should he come home) as well as the strange chicken parmesan they’re serving. It tastes fine. Louis just doesn’t look at it. 

He pulls out his phone once he’s found a table, pretending to look busy on his phone whilst eating and mindlessly scrolling through Twitter, though he really just wants to walk back to his flat and each microwave popcorn and watch porn. He’s been in a bit of a state recently. The DSB (Deadly Semen Backup) is hitting him hard. Quite literally. Never has a dry spell dragged on quite this long. Is the poetry turning him into more of a romantic? 

He munches quietly on his poor, sad, limp salad, wincing as he goes, until he hears the dull scrape of the metal legs of the chair against the floor of the dining hall. He looks up to see none other than Harry Styles, who, no more than 24 hours ago, Louis had seen slightly intoxicated on a small couch in Niall Horan’s flat, and had flirted quite aggressively with him. 

What a night to remember. 

Harry looks a little more pink cheeked and a little less peppy now that he’s in the dining hall on a Sunday evening, but he still makes Louis feel like he’s happy to be seeing him. “Louis! You mind if I sit?”

“I think you’ve answered that question yourself, mate.” Harry has already sat himself down in the seat across from Louis. There’s really no going back now. 

“I suppose you’re right, although I could leave if you didn’t want me here.”

“Well, Harry. I don’t mind if you sit.”

“I appreciate it.” He says it a little jokingly, teasing and light like the air around them, but he’s smiling, too. That bright pretty one that Louis likes all too much. He remembers what Harry said last night, about being friends. So they’re sitting together. That’s being friends, right? Louis certainly feels pretty friendly, if not more than. “So what’s up?”

Is it terrifically lame if Louis thinks it’s cute of him for starting a conversation like that? Well. “Not much,” Louis says easily, stabbing at his lettuce with his fork. “I nursed a bit of a hangover, sat around, put off more assignments. So, the usual; I really did nothing all day. The rain really demotivates me.” He snorts at himself. “Which is an issue seeing as it rains all the damn time. But I figured after laying around and watching Netflix all day I should probably get out of my flat.”

Harry laughs at him, smiling again as he pushes the rim of his cup to his lips. Louis is fucked, yes. “I personally love the rain. I find it inspiring.”

“Well, Harry,” Louis murmurs, “that is where you and me differentiate.” Although it’s very clear that there are many other things about Harry and Louis that separate them, it’s all Louis can think of saying. 

“I think there’s something poetic about it,” Harry says, and there’s something about his voice. He’s not whining or exclaiming but he’s talking through a grin and somehow it makes his tone all different. 

Louis smirks at him. “I thought you were the type that finds something poetic in everything?” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “All right, maybe you’re right, but like. Certain times it’s only when I’m looking. There’s something special about the rain.” 

“Good thing you live in England, then.” 

Harry laughs again. “I suppose it is a good thing. Not to say that there’s not something just as wonderful about a sunny day. Life’s about balance, in the end.” 

Louis cocks his head, stops his fork halfway to his mouth. “Do you always talk like that?”

“Like what?” Harry asks. His eyes are sparkling and his face still look so wonderfully at ease, like Louis’ pestering and questions and dumb comments aren’t bothering nor offending him in the least. 

“Philosophically and poetic and stuff.”

Harry takes a moment to think about it, looking down at his tray and playing with the ring on his index finger. “I guess it’s just how I think.”

Louis pauses. “Well I think that’s damn beautiful.” And he doesn’t say it just to see him smile, either. 

// \\\

“What took _you_ so long tonight?” Zayn murmurs teasingly as soon as he steps into the flat. He’s here. Brilliant. 

He’s not that late. Only like, an hour. So what if he got caught up talking? “I had thirds,” Louis mutters. He wasn’t even expecting Zayn to be home. 

“Bullshit. You don’t smile after you eat that much. You’d be whining already.”

“Oh?” Louis quips. “I could start whining, if you’d like.” If one thing’s for sure, Louis isn't smiling anymore. 

“Fuck off, Louis. You were with someone. You were smiling like an idiot when you walked through the door. Was it that Harry kid? I saw you with him at Niall’s party. They lived together for a while.” When did Zayn get fucking observant anyway? Bloody hell. 

Louis says nothing, too tired to keep lying about his dining hall experience and too stubborn to let Zayn ruin his night. He goes to the kitchen, gets himself a glass of water, and breezes past Zayn on the couch where Breaking Bad is playing on the telly. He’s brisk and sarcastic when he mutters, “Good _night,_ Zayn.” 

He can practically feel Zayn’s eye roll as he makes it down the hall, and he just snorts at the shout of, “You can’t get out of this forever! I know you have a crush!” 

Louis goes to his bed, sits legs folded with his Lit book in his lap, and attempts to read until overwhelmingly stupid giddiness bubbles up inside of him and he is forced to retreat, sit next to Zayn, and talk his fucking _ear_ off about god damned Harry Styles. 

// \\\ 

“So like…” Louis is so bad at this and he hates himself. The terrible part about it is that Louis is usually tremendously suave. He is suave master, but Harry makes him weird and what the fuck is up with that? He pinches his thigh where Harry can’t see, and then he starts over. “It’s supposed to rain on Friday night. You wanna come to my flat to watch Netflix and eat pizza?” It rains basically every day. What the heck is he saying. Maybe this is him trying to be poetic. 

He kind of hangs his head because this was not supposed to go down in such a shameful manner, but whatever. He looks up to see Harry grinning like a smug asshole, his head scarf letting loose little angle hairs fall over his forehead. “I’d love that.”

“‘Course you would,” Louis says, because if Harry’s gonna be a smug asshole, so is Louis. “Give me your phone. I’ll text you my building and stuff, yeah?” 

Louis types in his number, saves his name with the peach emoji next to it, and then sends himself a text. He may save Harry’s number with a shooting star, but no one has to know that but him. 

“That sounds lovely. Can I bring my cat?” 

“What?” Louis says. 

“His name is Jupiter! He’s orange.” 

Louis actually wants to slap his face again, but his hands are full and Harry’s watching him with his pretty green eyes. “I guess?” 

Harry chuckles. “I’m kidding. I just wanted to see what you’d say. He doesn’t really like to leave my flat.” 

“You’re weird, kid,” Louis tells him. Harry just smiles like he already knows. 

// \\\ 

Louis is not one for freaking out before dates, but Harry kind of makes him freak out. It sucks. The only thing that’s supposed to make him freak out is the tentacle porn Zayn showed him as a joke and that one time Niall did coke and took a shit in someone’s front yard. But he has, like, ten bags of popcorn ready to be popped on the kitchen counter, a lot of beer and Sprite in the fridge, and there are only two shirts on his floor that he really doesn’t want to pick up. What a start. 

He still has fifteen minutes until Harry is actually due to arrive, Netflix is set up from his laptop to the TV, but Zayn has yet to fucking leave. 

“Zayn, what the fuck are you still _doing_ here?” Louis whines, fixing his hair in the mirror for the thirtieth time and trying to ignore his roommate’s presence in his life currently. 

“I have nowhere else to go,” he says simply. 

“I don’t care?” Louis shakes his head, mentally slaps himself in the face. “Actually, fuck that. You totally do. Go to the goddamn library to study. Go to your art studio. Go to fucking Niall’s flat so you can get the need out of your dick so I don’t have to hear you having Skype sex _again._ ” 

Zayn just laughs, sits himself artfully on the couch, and looks obnoxiously smug. “I’m staying. I don’t want to go the library, there actually other classes that I’m not _in_ held at the studio, y’know, and also, Niall is in his Music Theory class right now, thank you. Also, you can fuck off. Because I might have Skype sex but at least I don’t have wet dreams about boys I’m not even dating.” 

Louis narrows his eyes behind his blush. “Excuse me, don’t lie right to my face. Like I haven’t heard you moan, _Justin, Justin_ in your sleep. Watch yourself, Malik.” (Zayn really likes Justin Timberlake. It’s great. (They may or may not dance to _Pusher Love Girl_ weekly. Whatever.)) He frowns quite hard after that. Then, an idea hits Louis. He goes to their fridge and removes their grocery list from where it’s stuck to the door with sticky tack (because door isn’t even magnetic. It’s a shame.) and hands it to Zayn, despite the fact that it probably only has half of what they need on it. “Better idea, yeah?” 

Zayn snorts, folds the paper in half. “It was your turn.”

“Cry about it,” Louis quips, taking a sip of his Sprite. “We’re living on stale cereal and left over Chinese take away. Shop for the greater good of both our dietary health and my date. Also, do your laundry, I’m sick of you complaining about it. In fact, do mine as well. And go pay Niall a visit after that? His class should be done after all the chores.”

“First of all, fuck you. Second of all, you fucking owe me. Third of all, it’s _you_ who was complaining about dirty laundry, so shut up.”

With that, Zayn flounces out of the kitchen and retreats into his room, only to return from the hallway a few minutes later with both his and Louis’ laundry bags. “Suck a dick,” he spits before grabbing his wallet and making to leave.

“Maybe on date two,” Louis calls, and then the door is slammed shut and he is alone with his popcorn and Sprite. 

After that, he has about ten minutes to himself spent pacing, eating popcorn, and trying to figure out what the fuck they’re going to watch. What does Harry even like? Besides, like, poetry and stuff. It passes slowly, but eventually there’s a knocking on his door, and there’s Harry, looking goddamn cute. He has his hood pulled up over his head, grey zip up hoodie covered in black dots of rain. He’s smiling, though, and carrying a bag from Tesco and a messenger bag slung over his shoulder. 

“Hi,” Harry breathes. He takes down his hood to reveal a black scarf pulling back his hair, along with a brilliant grin that makes Louis a little stupid. 

“Hey,” Louis says, and then he realizes he’s in the doorway. He’s quick to let Harry through, trying not to fumble over his feet or his words or something dumb. “You made it okay?” 

“Yeah, it was a quick walk,” Harry mumbles. “Only about fifteen minutes.”

“You walked?” Louis exclaims. “It’s going to _pour_ later.” 

“Well, I’ll be all right. S’just some water. Besides, there’s something about the rain that I really like. Can’t really explain it.” Harry pauses; Louis is in over his head. He’s also already hear this information. He should really be more careful. “Anyway, thanks for having me. I brought Chex Mix.”

“No problem! I have popcorn, too. And like Sprite and stuff. There’s never enough food when it comes to sitting around and doing nothing, to be quite honest.” He grabs a bag from a kitchen and gestures toward the couch for them to sit. They wind up close, but not that close. 

“So by Netflix, did you mean TV or movies? There’s a specific difference.” 

“All the movies on Netflix are shit. That’s what Megashare is for. We’re marathoning, kid.” 

“Marathoning what, though?” Harry asks with a dumb smirk that makes Louis kind of want on him. He shifts a bit on the couch. Their thighs touch. Louis is about one half dead. 

“Up to you? We’ve got options; ‘Breaking Bad’, ‘Portlandia’, ‘Bob’s Burgers’, ‘The Tudors’… Depends, I suppose.”

Harry thinks for a minute, taking a sip of his Sprite and staring at his feet propped up on the coffee table. “Well, I’ve seen all of ‘Breaking Bad’–”

“My kind of person,” Louis interrupts with a grin. Harry grins back. All kinds of cool. How did Louis end up like this. 

“–and ‘The Tudors’ is quite heavy. Would you judge me if I said ‘Bob’s Burgers’?” 

Louis just cocks his head, lets his expression look a little disappointed, and says, “If that were to happen, would I have suggested it?”

“Right,” Harry chuckles, embarrassed in that cute kind of way. 

“I’ve got my computer hooked up to the TV, we’ve just got to pick an episode. Do you want to start from season one?” 

“Why not?” Harry’s lovely. He really is. 

“All right then.” Louis stands to turn on S1E1, finding Harry shifted again. His arm is sprawled across the back of the couch and Louis can’t tell if he’s trying to “play it cool” or is completely unaware of the fact that, should Louis sit back in the same place, his arm will be around his shoulders. 

Louis chooses to ignore the situation. He plops back down without sparing another thought, their thighs even closer together. He reaches for the popcorn on the table, throws a handful in his mouth, and barely sits to swallow before saying, “Personally, I consider myself very similar to Tina, mostly because of her affinity to butts, but the boy thing, too.”

Harry laughs in a cackle, and his fingers brush Louis’ shoulder. 

They make it through four mildly tense episodes. Okay, so tense is not the word. It’s actually really comfortable, because he feels like himself around Harry. He’s easy to be around. He laughs at Louis’ jokes, and even cracks his own (even if they’re silly). In fact, Louis’s not felt so at ease around someone in a while. He’s just a bit on his toes, because Harry’s cute and smart and rather wonderful, so Louis would quite like it if he didn’t fucking blow his chance of doing a date thing with him. That would be nice. 

Right before the fifth episodes starts up, Harry’s phone rings in his back pocket. He has to shift up his bum to reach for it, his arm coming down from where it had happily been around Louis’ shoulders. “Sorry,” Harry mutters. He looks down at the screen. It reads _Liam._ Louis remembers Liam. He was at Niall’s party. Apparently Niall knows everyone. “S’just Liam. It can wait till I get home. Or he can like, text me, like a normal person.”

“You could’ve taken it, y’know,” Louis says, moments after Harry presses ignore. 

“I know. But it’s not important. I’m hanging out with you.” They look at each other for a moment – and, god does Louis _look_ – but then Harry leans forward to place his phone on the coffee table and whatever was swirling between their eyes is broken. “He was probably just bothering me about my mess that I left in the kitchen. I’m really quite clean, but I was in the middle of writing a song when I realized I was going to be late to come here. So I just left my papers and stuff everywhere. He’ll get over it.”

“You’re a musician, too?” _Christ,_ what doesn’t the kid do. 

“I dabble,” Harry says. Louis can tell he’s being modest. 

“What genre?” Louis asks, and then he looks at Harry again. “Indie alternative stuff, right. Why did I ask?”

“You really can read me, then?” 

“So I was right.” There’s a pause. “You know the only way for an indie band to get famous is for their song to be a car commercial, right?” Louis states this fact very seriously. 

And Harry is just as solemn. “Yeah, of course. Right.” 

They smile at each other after that, toothy and on the verge of laughing, before Louis says, “Is that what you’re studying, then? Music?”

Harry shakes his head, still smiling, all warm and friendly. Louis would quite like to have a cuddle with him. “No, I’m actually studying English and Education. I’d really like to be a teacher some day.” 

“That’s bold work, kid,” Louis mutters. “I love children, honestly, but once they’re past about twelve they get a bit hard to work with.” 

“If there’s a will there’s a way,” Harry sings. He nudges Louis’ thigh with his knuckles. “What about you then, what’re you studying?”

“Sports Journalism. I was gonna do Sports Medicine, but then, like. Doctor. So I was like, hey, I can write a pretty decent paragraph. Why not write about men kicking balls in shorts that only go to mid-thigh?” 

Harry chuckles again, and he has such an aura to him. Louis just feels like he’s been pulled into this gravity, this atmosphere that’s going to whirl him into an orbit of soft grins and big laughs. “Understandable. Why’re you in the poetry class then? Not that you shouldn’t be poetic in prose, but it’s a bit far off from journalism, especially when you don’t seem to like it so much.”

“It was kind of last minute? I needed more English credits this semester and that was honestly all that was left.”

“Oh,” Harry says, sounding a bit disappointed. Not that he didn’t already know. “What got you into writing then?”

“It was a couple years ago. I would never really read books. Just magazines and stuff.”

“No books?” He sounds floored. It’s rather funny. 

“To be quite honest, I was always one of the kids who thought reading was stupid and shit, and I would constantly complain about it.” He watches Harry’s face fall and wants to put a hand on his thigh. He just clenches his fist. “But like – I think uni’s kind of changed me a bit? What’s the point of hating it so much. It’s the basis for like – everything. I kind of wish I enjoyed it more.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Uh, cynicism, narcissism, and a short attention span?” He pauses. “I’ll admit, it’s growing on me. I’ve just had to get over myself.”

“I um, I have _The Catcher in the Rye_ in my bag. Can I read you a bit from it? I read it in school when I was like 15, but. It’s quite special to me.” 

“Yeah, uh, sure.”

Harry looks at him with a cocked head. “Do you not want me to? I don’t have to. If it’s not what you want to do. I understand watching Tina Belcher instead.” 

Louis laughs lightly, wants to put his hand over Harry’s to almost _reassure_ him in his interests. “It’s okay. I want to hear what’s so important to you.” It’s almost teasingly, the way he says it, but he’s serious. He wants to hear. 

Harry scrambles up to get his novel from his messenger bag that he left by the door, bending over and giving Louis a rather spectacular view of his arse. Highlights in everything. He sits back down in a rush, their legs slamming together and bodies angled nicely toward each other. 

“Okay. Yeah. This is a quote from like, toward the end of the book, actually? Um, Holden – the main character – is at one of his old teacher’s house, Mr. Antolini. And they’re having this discussion, right? So this is some of what Mr. Antolini says to Holden:

“ _… you’re going to start getting closer and closer – that is if you_ want _to, and if you look for it and wait for it – to the kind of information that will be very, very dear to your heart. Among other things, you’ll find that you’re not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened by human behavior. You’re by no means alone on that score, you’ll be excited and_ stimulated _to know. Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You’ll learn from them – if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something for you. It’s a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn’t education. It’s history. It’s poetry.”_

Harry takes a moment after he finishes reading, his fingers brushing along the pages of his worn book. He can see the dog-eared pages and the highlighted paragraphs and little sticky note tabs poking out on nearly every other page. Louis is beginning to think Harry’s a little bit more than a poetry cliché. There’s a few quiet beats; Louis is not exactly sure what he’s meant to take from the words that Harry read to him, but there’s something. He feels something. And it matters. 

“Yeah, um,” Harry stutters out. “I don’t know what you gathered from that, but like. It’s one of my favorite parts of the book, and I just thought I’d share. Yeah.” 

Oh, what a mystery this kid is. So beautiful in poems when he’s has time to think, but fumbling over words under pressure like he’s a ten-year-old playing American football with a ball too big for his little hands. Louis wants to understand him. He starts like this. 

“I actually really like it, mate. Would you mind if I borrowed your copy? I think I’d quite enjoy reading it. If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Absolutely!” Harry exclaims, grin too big and hands still moving a little. “I hope you like it. Will you tell me how it goes?”

“Of course.” 

And Louis is ready to pay damn attention to everything the kid’s highlighted. 

There’s a little bit of a lull after that, like they're unsure of where to proceed with their conversation, so Louis just gets up and starts the next episode to ease whatever tension creeped up on them. They fall back into laughter and commentary quickly, but Louis can’t stop looking over at Harry to see how he reacts. So naturally, following is a lot of awkward eye contact that ends with Louis quickly glancing away, a little sheepish but still wanting to stare, despite himself. 

Finally, after a few more times, Harry finally says, “What?”

“What do you mean, what?” Louis counters. He is _such_ a dick. Most of the time it’s liberating, but now is not one of those times. 

“Why do you keep looking at me?” 

“Well, you’re pretty cute,” Louis mutters. God, what is he _doing._

“At least hold eye contact, then,” Harry counters. 

Louis turns to him, ignores the fact that Bob’s Burgers is currently playing behind them, and folds his legs beneath his thighs. “Staring contest, then?” 

“If that’s how it has to be,” Harry says sternly. He’s smiling. And then they’re staring aggressively at each other. Louis finds bright green, still eyes, concentrated on his own. Louis can’t help his from wandering, from the way his hair is falling over his forehead delicately, how there’s a freckle just a little bit off from the corner of his mouth, the slope of his nose. They hold for what can’t be less than thirty seconds, and then Louis’ inner monologue – what an eloquent one it is – says _fuck it,_ and he leans forward, cups Harry’s face, and kisses him just in time to watch his eyes flutter shut. 

It’s quick and wonderful, Louis’ hands staying on his cheeks and lips moving just gently. Once he pulls back, he keeps one hand on the junction of Harry’s neck and shoulder, lets the other fall in their laps. Then, he blurts, “You lose.”

“What?” Harry breathes, airy and a little disoriented. 

“Your eyes. You closed them when I kissed you.”

Harry shakes his head after that, like he can’t believe what Louis is saying to him. “So that’s what you were concerned about? Is that the reason you did it?”

Louis smirks, lets his hand run down Harry’s bicep and back up to his jaw. “One of many, I’d say.” He shifts forward. “I’d quite like to do it again, if you don’t mind. No contest involved.”

“Yeah,” Harry murmurs. “Yeah, okay.”

So it’s casual then, making out while Bob’s Burgers serenades them. It’s all quite romantic, really. 

// \\\

“Honestly, thank you for having me.” 

“Y’know. You were a nice snog. Marathon nights don’t always turn out like that.”

“Oh, do you have a lot of them, then?” 

“With Zayn, yeah. But he tends to leave half way through to have Skype sex with Niall.” Louis doesn’t know when talking about Zayn and Niall’s internet sex became such a commonly spoken about topic in his life, but it’s getting rather annoying. He should really stop. 

“Right. Well, I should go.” 

“You’ll text me about our next date?” Louis goes for brash. It works. Most of the time. 

Harry smirks, moves a little closer to Louis from where he was idling in the doorway. “This was a date?” 

“How often do you snog your _friends_ on the couch?” It’s rhetorical, but Harry keeps moving forward. 

“I’m sure you could, like, assume…” 

“Fuck off,” Louis says, and Harry kisses him again, stepping back inside his flat and making them bang into the wall a bit. “Text me?”

“About our _date._ ” 

“Right.” Louis nods. He’s slow, his hand wavers on Harry’s waist. Then he kisses Harry’s cheek, and he’s out the door. “Bye, love.”

“Bye, Lou.” 

// \\\

To be quite frank, it’s all downhill from there. Louis aggressively starts reading every book and poem Harry recommends them (because he’s both inspired and smitten) and they tend to spend most of their time together. It’s all proper romance, so they’re currently sat in Harry’s room, sprawled on his bed, studying. 

“Like, ordinarily, how long are we meant to wait before we bang?”

Harry laughs before sighing. “We’re in university. There are no rules about that. We could’ve fucked before we even spoke and it still would’ve met the guidelines.” 

“Right, so.” Louis pulls his book away from his hands and sits on his lap. “Are you busy?”

“Not at all, actually,” Harry chuckles. “I was just _pretending_ to read that book.”

“Are you one of those, like, who’d rather read or do homework or cry than fuck?” 

“See, Louis,” Harry murmurs, their lips close to brushing, “that is where you go wrong.”

“Lovely.” Then they’re kissing. 

To put it lightly, it’s only about two and a half minutes before Harry’s textbook falls onto the ground (to which they wince, because it is not a quiet sound), and Louis realizes that he hasa terrific boner and the study playlist Harry had on before has suddenly turned into a bastardized version of mood music. He pulls back from Harry’s kiss, takes his shirt off, and stares down at the boy beneath him, flushed, with messy hair and pretty eyes that are watching his every move. Harry’s watching him with a look of intent, like he’s anticipating something extremely important. He should really stop that, if it’s what he expects from Louis’ mouth all the time. He’ll live a very dissatisfied and disappointed life. 

“So, are we really going to fuck to Bon Iver?” 

Harry bursts into laughter, hair falling into his eyes and shaking stomach vibrating Louis in a way that’s admittedly pleasant, in a weird way. “Not if you don’t want to. What do you have in mind?”

“I don’t know… Beyoncé? The Weeknd? Miley?”

Harry keeps on laughing, bringing his hands from Louis’ waist to cover his own eyes instead. “You’re ridiculous. I love it.” 

“I’m serious, though!” Louis exclaims. “You can’t deny that fucking to ‘Love Money Party’ wouldn’t be _poetic.”_

“Fuck off,” Harry chuckles, placing one of his big hands on the small of Louis’ bare back. Louis shudders a little bit. He’d kind of forgotten that he’d taken his shirt off. “Besides, if anyone’s going to be changing the music, it’s you. I’m kind of trapped.” He vaguely gestures to Louis sitting on top of him. 

“Yeah, all right. What do you suggest for fuck music, then?”

Harry chuckles again. “Go look through my playlists. I’m sure you’ll find something fitting.”

So Louis forces himself off of Harry’s lap, tries to adjust his dick, and walks over to the desk where Harry’s phone is plugged in, currently crooning ‘Re: Stacks’. He unlocks it (his password is 2486 because he likes the way it makes a square) and dutifully scrolls through the playlists. Coincidentally, there happens to be a playlist called Sex. Next to the title is an appropriately placed fire emoji. 

“You have a playlist specifically dedicated to sex?” 

“What’s it to you?” Harry calls back. He’s taken off his shirt. His body is literally magnificent, but Louis peels his eyes away for the sake of being annoying condescending and furthermore not distracted. 

“I’m just curious. Have you used it many times?” 

“No,” Harry mumbles softly. “Actually, should you choose to put it on, it would be the first. I just made it last week.”

“So you made a playlist specifically dedicated to when _we_ have sex?”

Harry just shrugs. “It’s poetic.”

Now he’s just being an asshole. 

“Now you’re just being an asshole.”

“I learned from the best,” Harry says. 

“You are a wanker.”

“Hopefully, if you put on that playlist and come back over here, we’ll both be doing some kind of wanking.”

Louis might actually be in love. He presses play (ignores how the first song is ‘Shiver Shiver’ by Walk the Moon because _dear god_ ) and essentially jumps onto the bed to get his mouth on Harry’s chest. They don’t exactly take it slow, but Louis does his best to memorize everything he can. Harry’s got a body worth worshiping, so that’s what he does. He kisses his neck and his chest and that spot behind his ear and right on the waistband of his boxers, where two laurels peak out and bloom on his hips. Harry breathes deep; his tummy rises and falls; it’s beautiful. 

“You want me to fuck you?” he asks. 

Harry does a little bit of a whine in response, moving his hips up and breathing, “Yes.” 

Louis just murmurs his okay on the shell of Harry’s ear, working on getting them both naked and feeling every inch of the porcelain skin under his fingertips. He’s pale from the cold, dark winter, but it makes his ink starker, his eyes brighter, his blush more scarlet. He works their cocks together for a minute, just letting Harry lie there – neck exposed, head tipped back to the pillow, arms pliant by his sides. He’s a masterpiece. Louis likes the way he gasps, likes the way all of this is a surprise and a moment that’s worth reacting to. 

“Is this what being on fire feels like?” Harry breathes. His eyes shoot open to meet with Louis’, pupils blown but still filled with admiration behind a veil of misty lust. 

Louis thumbs over the head of his cock. “No, love. That’s much hotter.”

“This is pretty hot, if you ask me.”

Louis chuckles, says, “Fuck you.” Then he bites Harry’s collarbone and takes a few moments to himself to leave a nice, pretty bruise that’ll be right above the collar of his shirts.

“That’s what we’re getting at here, isn’t it?” Harry bites back, tone still airy and a little far away. 

“When did you learn to be as much of a sarcastic asshole as me?” Louis wonders, leaning over Harry to reach for the lube that’s been sitting on the bedside table for this whole evening. (Apparently, Harry had forgotten to “put it away” the last time he used it. Louis thinks it was just a set up to get them to fuck. He is clearly not opposed.) 

“Through observation, Lou.”

“Maybe it’s because we’ve officially touched dicks.”

Harry laughs again, curls his hand around the nape of Louis’ neck to pull him in for a kiss. It’s warm and eager, because Harry’s pushing up against his thigh, rutting and breathing all heavily into Louis’ mouth. 

“Yeah?” Louis mutters. 

Harry just tips his head back, eyes closed, and lets out a high whine. Louis bites at his collarbone and makes quick work of slicking up his fingers, reaching his hand between Harry’s thighs to which his spreads further. Louis wants him so badly; he looks like the burst of light when the clouds move out from in front of the sun. He opens him up quickly but carefully, taking time to check if he’s all right, even if his whines are enough to tell Louis that this is good, this is wonderful. 

“You good, H?” 

“More than,” Harry breathes. “Fuck me?”

Louis chuckles, kisses up his neck, and reaches for a condom in the drawer next to the bed. Harry snatches it from his hand and rolls it on for him, stroking his dick a few times and watching Louis’ eyes flutter shut. He pours more lube onto his hand and over his cock, lining up with Harry’s hole and pushing in slow, holding onto his hips with one hand and leaning down to kiss him as he moves. 

“C’mon,” Harry murmurs after a few moments, “move, then.”

Louis runs a hand through Harry’s hair and pistons his hips forward after that, fucking him in earnest, listening to the way their skin makes it’s own music and how their bodies gleam into the too bright lights. Louis is pretty sure Kings of Leon is playing in the background. It’s fucking perfect in the end, the way they move together and the noises that spill past their lips and the way Harry gasps when Louis hits his spot just right. 

It’s not so long when they lose it, Harry gasping, “Close,” and Louis just giving it to him, loving the way his legs are wrapped around his waist and how his abs clench tight. He spills over Louis’ fist and his own stomach after Louis gets a hand on him, and Louis is soon to follow, with Harry spread out beneath him and pearly white pooled around his belly button. 

Apparently sex can be poetic, too, because when he comes, he says, “ _Harry,”_ and it sounds like a fucking work of art. 

// \\\

“Hey,” Harry murmurs to him, and they’re laying on the couch, Harry’s head in Louis’ lap, fingers tangled in hair. “Remember when I did my presentation on e.e. cummings?” 

“Well, how could I forget, Styles?” Louis laughs, looks down at his pretty green eyes and scratches his scalp. “That was what reeled me in. Actually, I forgot to tell you. I’m only dating you because you can quote _cummings_. I thought it was a prophecy for your dick.” 

Harry laughs but reaches up to swat his face, kind of missing and just running the back of his hand along Louis’ mouth. “Shut up. There’s a poem I want to show you, is that all right?”

Louis rolls his eyes, and he can tell that Harry probably wants to hit him again. “I mean, I _guess._ ” 

“Well, I’m showing you either way,” Harry says defiantly. “Besides, it’s a poem by your favorite. Don’t jizz your pants.” 

Louis takes a dramatized deep breath. “I’ll try.”

So Harry takes his phone from his front pocket – with a small admitted struggle – and reads from it: 

**I Like My Body When It Is With Your**

 

i like my body when it is with your

body. It is so quite new a thing.

Muscles better and nerves more.

i like your body.i like what it does,  
i like its hows.i like to feel the spine

of your body and its bones,and the trembling

-firm-smooth ness and which i will

again and again and again

kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,

i like, slowly stroking the,shocking fuzz

of your electric furr,and what-is-it comes

over parting flesh….And eyes big love-crumbs,

 

and possibly i like the thrill

 

of under me you so quite new

“Jesus,” Louis breathes. “That’s beautiful.” It’s more than just the words, he always says. Harry reads slow, and like a tan in a summertime, the light is absorbed little by little. Louis takes something new with each line. He never thought he’d just be able to sit around with a boy and have them read poetry together, but it’s a whole new type of enlightening, relaxing. He feels warm, like he’s been laying out in that summer’s sun. 

“Isn’t it? I find him so fascinating. That’s why I chose him for the project.”

“Wise choice, then. I loved that one.”

“So poetry’s really started to grow on you?” Harry asks, and he’s not asking to make a mockery of Louis. It’s like he’s double checking with his senses. 

“It really has. And I want to thank you for that, darling. I needed it.”

“It was my pleasure.”

“Clearly. Because you tried so hard with it,” Louis laughs. Harry shoves him, but folds onto the couch a little more to get a better look at the underside of Louis’ chin. 

“You look pretty from down here,” Harry says. 

“Thanks, love.” 

Harry kisses his wrist. Louis can swear he can feel Harry’s heart beat next to his own pulse, right through the pink of his lips. 

// \\\

Louis is idling by the door, totally not eavesdropping as usual because he’s pretty sure as Resident BF he has permission to listen. And if he doesn’t, that’ll totally be his excuse. This is all fishy business, that is, because class ended five minutes ago, and Harry is still up at the front talking to Kingston. Even more suspiciously, Kingston’s got his nasty hand on Harry’s upper arm. Louis can’t really hear what they’re discussing because of how low they’re murmuring, but he heard the words “love” and “poetry”, so clearly none of this is good. 

It needs to be stopped. 

So what Louis does is, he grabs his bag, slings it over his shoulder, and tightens his scarf around his neck. He moves determinedly, because this is unacceptable business. 

Once near the board, he sees Kingston’s face that looks kind of smug but probably isn’t, and he’s goddamn smiling. Louis wants to punch him in the nose. So he sidles up to Harry instead, and artfully and suavely drapes an arm around his waist. 

“Hey, love. You ready to go?”

Harry looks at him sideways. “Sure, if you are. I was just finish up a conversation with Michael here He'd been giving me some really good criticism on my last piece.” He waves the paper in his hand around, marked with blue ink. Louis notes the title, “Yours Truly”. Louis hasn't read anything by Harry called that. He frowns. Also, _Michael_? He’s actually been calling him that? Don’t bather with unacceptable business – this is grotesque. 

“Right,” Louis says. “Well, we are in a bit of a rush.” (They’re not. He grabs Harry’s hand.) 

“Have a good rest of your day, boys. You have a very talented friend, Louis.” 

Louis just turns on his heel and marches out of the classroom, waiting until they’re through the doors to say. “Friend? I’m not your bloody friend. I’m just _yours._ ”

“What, are you jealous or something, Lou?” 

“Absolutely not. Jealousy is childish and petty. I just think he’s a creep and I require your attention all seconds of the day.”

“You’re so needy.”

“Says the one who’s always whining _please, please_ when my dick is in your ass.”

Harry frowns. Aggressively. It’s the cutest thing Louis has ever seen. 

“I resent that.”

“You say so _now.”_

“Stop teasing me.”

“Okay. Good plan. Now let’s get to the root of the problem. Why the fuck is Kingston so obsessed with you?” He may or may not spit the name. He’s probably walking too briskly. He does that when he’s mad. 

“Why are you so concerned?”

“Why am I so concerned, he asks. Hm, what a peculiar question! Why on earth would a respectable man worry about a creepy forty-year-old man prying on his boyfriend? I wonder.”

“Okay he’s not forty. He’s like, thirty-five. Also, he’s not creepy.”

“Why are you defending him so much?”

“I _like_ him. He’s a good teacher. Plus, he’s never called my poetry dumb.”

Louis is now the one frowning. “Firstly, I never specifically called _your_ poetry dumb. It was all poetry. Besides, it was before I started hanging out with you and we touched dicks and I came across my poetic side.”

“Louis.”

“Care to continue provoking me?”

“Can you apologize?”

“For our teacher lusting after you? Absolutely not.” Harry goes to interrupt him, but Louis beats him to it. “But for hurting your feelings, always.”

Harry smiles. Then he leans nice and close to Louis’ ear, brushing the scarf wrapped around his neck. “You know I’m fucking with you, right? He is a little creepy.”

“Oh, fucking hell. Screw you, we’re going to Starbucks and you’re buying me a venti mocha. _With_ whipped cream.”

Harry just grins. “Whatever you want, Lou. Besides, any punishment is worth seeing you pout.”

“Any punishment, huh?” There’s a beat. Harry flushes and Louis smirks. “Also, I was not fucking pouting. 

// \\\

Louis never really thought he would say he’s in love with a poet, but after three days of researching Ralph Waldo Emerson and half a semester in a History of Poetry class with Harry Styles, things may have changed. 

// \\\

His first poem that he truly likes, Zayn finds. He forgets to close the document after closing his laptop. He wants to die. Like, it’s not even finished; just two stanzas, that, even after writing it himself, he doesn’t really understand. 

“Honestly?” Zayn says. 

“Honestly,” Louis replies. He’s flat as a fucking board. “Can you leave me alone now?”

“Never, mate. I’m never letting this go.”

“Why the fuck not? You’ve always liked poetry. Why do you have to be up my ass about this?”

“Because it’s _you,_ mate. Has Harry genuinely turned you that inside out?”

“Maybe he has,” Louis growls. “Now put down my laptop and get the fuck out of my room.”

“But I didn’t even get to watch the porn yet!” 

“Fucking cry about it. You have your own laptop.”

“You know I like your bookmarks better,” Zayn grumbles as he sets Louis’ computer back on the desk. “You’re a mean, mean man, Louis Tomlinson.” He ambles out of the room frowning. 

“Says the one who made fun of me for my interests,” says Louis under his breath.

He then opens his word document and tries to finish. The only line he really feels satisfied with is this: _/you put the sun in my stomach and we still glowed late at night/._  

// \\\

“Lou, you said we were gonna _study,_ ” Harry whines as Louis kisses his neck, stopping right behind his ear because he knows it bothers him. 

“I say a lot of things,” Louis replies, bringing his hands to Harry’s shoulders and rubbing gently, feeling the tension worked into this neck and back. Giving him a massage could be fun. It would totally get him laid. Harry just grunts. “Like, ‘yeah, of course I’ll be home before midnight’ and ‘I’m totally straight.’”

Harry allows him a laugh, but still frowns. “Are you saying you lie to me? Also when do you tell people that you’re straight?”

“I lie to everyone,” Louis says honestly. “But we can make out instead?”

Harry narrows his eyes and tries to turn back to his computer where several tabs on Bashō and Japan are open, but Louis presses his lips to the side of his neck again and Harry just sighs as the tension is pressed out of his back. “I need to learn more for my project. It’s important. And cool.” Harry fiddles with a stack of square papers next to his laptop. Louis pulls back to stare at his eyelashes. 

“You like Japan so much, little cherry blossom,” Louis murmurs to him, leaning over his shoulder and pressing his mouth to his neck. Just breathing. Watching him fold one of the lilies that he likes to make out of the expensive origami paper from the craft store. 

Louis keeps his lips pressed to his skin, feels him swallow. “It’s a really interesting culture.” He pauses. “Cherry blossom?” 

Louis stands and shrugs, standing in front of Harry’s swivel chair to get a good look at him, cup his hands around Harry’s face and watch his eyes. “Kind of a mouthful, innit? What about just blossom? You get kind of pink like one, too.” From his space above him, Louis gets to watch Harry blush _just_ right. He’s so lovely Louis could cry. “And soft, too. Right here.” He thumbs gently across Harry’s cheek and doesn’t even give himself a chance to think before he speaks. 

“You have galaxies in your eyes. You do know that, right? They’re explosive and open, and I want to stare at them forever. It’s all like stars. But it’s a little different from when I tried to take astronomy because I didn’t understand that. I at least like to think I understand you. And if there’s ever anything I’m not getting, you tell me. Okay? I want to know you in a way I’ll never forget. Like – like my locker combination from when I was in college.”

He snorts a breath. “Yeah, okay. That was a shitty simile but like, it stuck with me. 14-33-02. I want you to stick with me.” 

Harry just looks at him with shiny eyes, green and coming from Jupiter’s furthest moon. People can be so special. A hand wraps around Louis’ waist, and then Harry’s shaking his head in some kind of disbelief, standing up, and murmuring against his lips, “And you say you’re not a poet.” 

The way they kiss is a poem if Louis has ever heard one, and if that’s cliché, this is what he has to say: clichés are well-known for a reason. What they have is going to be known. 

// \\\

Later that night: 

“Harry, I swear to fucking God or Buddha or whoever the fuck it is you choose to worship, if you make a poetic analogy about my cock I _will_ draw this out forever.” 

“Fine. Just fucking fuck me…. (like I’m patience and you’re the next in line.)” 

“ _Honestly_ Harold.” 

Sex is fun. 

// \\\

They’re in Starbucks, because Louis likes to complain about overpriced coffee but will die for their mocha, and Harry likes watching Louis get irritable and chai tea lattes. It all works out quite nicely. They already have their drinks, so they’re sitting in the very far corner, the one with the fluffy chairs, and there’s kind of a lull in conversation.

Louis is a terrible conversationalist when he has coffee to focus on. So he says: 

“You know when I first met you, I thought you were a terrible poetry cliché who was in love with fairy lights and his lit text book.”

Harry raises his eyebrows amusedly. He sips his drink. “But I am that.”

Louis sighs. “Yeah, but–” He tries to start explaining, but he’s not so sure how to say how much _more_ than that he is. So he resorts back to himself, like a true dick. “I was an annoying anti-poem asshole. It was weird.” Louis is becoming illiterate after writing so much poetry. He’s run out of words. 

Harry looks slightly disgruntled, and not even in the cute way. It’s kind of upsetting, actually. “So I guess we’re both a cliché then, huh? What’s more predictable than falling in love with your opposite? Or with someone who irritates you?”

Louis wants to through his hands up in the air. This conversation genuinely took a turn for the shitty, aside from the whole _falling in love with_ bit. “You don’t _irritate_ me, Harry, god.”

“Then why do you sound so irritated?”

“I _love_ you, for Christ’s sake!”

Harry just smirks. No longer disgruntled. Only pleased with this end result and whatever’s bound to come out of his mouth. “I’m going to write a poem about this, I hope you know.” 

Louis rolls his eyes, huffs, and whispers, “and it’ll be lovely, of course,” as irritatedly as he can, before kissing him. And it occurs somewhere in the back of Louis’ mind, that maybe he’ll write a poem about this, too. 

So Mondays and Wednesdays still suck, but he’s got a boy to walk to class with, and there are poems written about them in the middle of their clasped palms. 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos mean the world to me! Let me know what you thought :*


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